


Vows

by dragons_in_the_north



Series: Thomas Barrow Valentine's Prompts 2021 [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: But mostly fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Wedding (of sorts), discussion of Performative Heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_in_the_north/pseuds/dragons_in_the_north
Summary: “It might be a good idea for you to find yourself a girl.”
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Series: Thomas Barrow Valentine's Prompts 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136630
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50
Collections: Well I love you: Valentines for Thomas Barrow





	Vows

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Prompt #2: “Take my hand.” “Why?” “Because I’m trying to ask you to marry me, take my bloody hand!”

“You won’t believe what Alfred said to me earlier today.” Jimmy lounged upon Thomas’ narrow bed, clad in pyjamas with legs crossed at the ankle. Idly, he smoked one of Thomas’ cigarettes. A long, grey column collected at the tip, and Jimmy tapped it out in an ashtray on the nightstand before Thomas could complain about dirty sheets.

“I don’t believe half of what comes out of the Witless Wonder’s mouth,” said Thomas. “Lummox can’t tell his elbow from an _hors d’oeuvre._ ” He stood at the wash basin, rinsing the brillantine from his hair. A few weeks previous, Jimmy had whispered to Thomas in the dark that the sight of inky strands loose and soft against Thomas’ pale brow _did things_ to him, that it made the man look younger, somehow. _Am I too old for you, then?_ Thomas had replied, arching an eyebrow. But since that night he’d made a point of washing and combing his hair clean before climbing into bed with Jimmy.

“He accused me of flirtin’ with that bird at the pub the other day,” Jimmy said with a snort. “Told me I couldn’t have her _and_ Ivy. As if I’d want either of them.”

Thomas turned away from the mirror, slipping off his leather glove and dropping it onto the stand in one fluid movement. “You _were_ awfully friendly, Jimmy.”

“Well, sure, for the free drinks and that. I didn’t mean anything by it. _You_ would know.” He gave Thomas a very fond look, cheeky grin firmly in place, but the other man was fiddling with the cord of his robe and wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Nightcap?” Thomas offered abruptly.

“Go on, then.” While he knelt to pull a bottle of gin and two glasses from the bottom of the wardrobe, Jimmy leaned over to fish his lucky deck of cards from the pocket of his own robe, lying in a heap on the floor beside the bed. He shuffled them, more for something to do with his hands than anything else.

After he’d settled into the armchair near the bed, Thomas poured them each a generous couple of fingers. Jimmy immediately brought the glass to his lips—a welcome, bittersweet burn sliding down the back of his throat—but Thomas hesitated. He swirled the clear liquid around, adjusted his position in the chair. Finally, he spoke.

“It might be a good idea for you to find yourself a girl.” He addressed the gin in his hand, not Jimmy. “We spend so much time together, and practically everyone at the Abbey is aware of my… situation. They’ll start to talk eventually. But if you had some pretty, little thing on your arm, it’d throw them off the scent.”

Jimmy felt as if the world were tilting beneath him, and it didn’t have the slightest thing to do with alcohol. “Next you’ll be telling me I ought to get married.”

The slender, white hand, normally able to carry a weighted-down tray with ease, shook as it travelled to a pursed, unhappy mouth. Thomas downed the contents of his glass in one gulp. “If that’s what you want,” he whispered. “Jimmy, plenty of men like… me do that sort of thing. In the daytime, they have their wives and children—and in the nighttime, they take care of any _improper_ urges. It’s all very neat and tidy. And certainly safer than playing the confirmed bachelor.”

He looked Jimmy directly in the eye now, and he wished at once that he hadn’t. He was putting on that damned brave face Jimmy hated so much, tears ill-concealed beneath the surface. With a sickening jolt, he realised Thomas was saying _goodbye,_ and he reflexively snatched up the deck of cards stacked at his side, the ridges and flat planes soothing as rosary beads against the pads of his fingers.

“I don’t want you to think you don’t have options, Jimmy,” continued Thomas, each word clipped and deliberate. “Because you do. And you’d still have me for—for as long as you want me. Things would be a little different, that’s all.” The watery attempt at a smile vanished from his face nearly as soon as it appeared.

_A little different._ What a load of shite. There’d be no more trips to the cinema with their laughter mingling in the air as Chaplin bumbled about on the silver screen. No more window shopping in York and buying one another little presents just because. No more strolling about the grounds together, arm-in-arm beneath a concealing canopy of green. In time, the Thomas of Jimmy’s mind would narrow to a shadowy figure he rutted mindlessly against for a few stolen moments in a dingy alley behind some pub. Meanwhile, the rest of his thoughts, his memories, his _life_ would be crowded with a wife he didn’t love, and children that ought not to exist. Didn’t Thomas know that Jimmy was too far gone for that sort of existence? Didn’t he know what Jimmy felt for him went miles beyond getting his leg over?

If he didn’t, there was only one fellow to blame. Anger surged white-hot through Jimmy’s veins, anger at _himself_ for believing that a soppy romantic like Thomas wouldn’t need tangible proof of Jimmy’s love.

“Take my hand.” He must have pulled a dreadful face, for Thomas leaned deliberately away, fingers digging into the arms of the chair.

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to ask you to marry me, take my bloody hand! Christ, you’re a suspicious bastard.”

Now Thomas didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t near tears. “This is my _point,_ we can’t ever—”

“I can’t slip a ring onto your finger, it’s true,” Jimmy cut in. He set the half-drunk glass down on the nightstand, and the cards down in the hollow of his lap. “We can’t stand up together in a church wearing our Sunday best. But we don’t need a priest to tell us we’ll be together our whole lives long. We’re better than that sort of nonsense.” He bit his lip. “I mean, if you say _yes,_ o’course.”

Thomas didn’t answer. He seemed quite beyond words. Yet the naked hope swimming in his eyes told Jimmy all he needed to know. He didn’t have a golden band, but surely there was _something_ he could give to Thomas, some physical token…. He shifted, and hearts, diamonds, spades, clubs all spilled out across his legs, a universe of possibilities. Without hesitation, he gathered up the playing cards, and—gently taking hold of Thomas’ wrist—placed the rectangles of card stock onto the scarred palm of his lover’s hand.

“I give you these as a promise.” Jimmy refused to let his voice tremble; Thomas was blubbery enough for the both of them, he reckoned. “They belonged to me dad originally. I never gamble without them. And you know how I can’t resist a little flutter.” He grinned. “So long as you keep those cards in your pocket, you’re stuck with me.”

“ _Stuck_ with you, hm? How romantic.” But Thomas was still gazing at him as if he were too lovely to be borne, a tiny, amazed smile gracing his lips. Suddenly, he blinked and sat upright. “Oh! I should…” He reached into his pocket with his good hand and pulled out the lighter with the pronounced dent at the bottom. “This lighter saved my life. More importantly, I need it to smoke me fags. I can’t think of a more appropriate symbol of my fidelity, to be honest.” He wrapped Jimmy’s fingers around the smooth, metal surface.

Jimmy arched an eyebrow. “You do realise _I_ can smoke all your fags now.”

Thomas lifted a fresh packet of cigarettes from the other pocket on his robe, holding them high above his head and out of reach. “Not bloody likely.”

“Bastard,” said Jimmy with obvious affection. He leaned in as if to attempt a swipe at the smokes in Thomas’ grasp, but instead pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Thomas embraced him at once as best he could with both his hands occupied. A terrible, wonderful lightness spread within Jimmy from the chest outward. It wasn’t a first kiss, but it was certainly a first _something._

When they pulled away from one another, Thomas slid two cigarettes out of the pack. Jimmy lit each one with the neat flick of his wrist, like he would for years to come, like he would when they were old and grey and living together in a cosy cottage, hopefully in a gentler time in which people asked fewer questions.

Jimmy smiled up at his love, his only love, innocent as you please. “How does it feel to be Mrs James Kent?” he asked.

He received a very stern look in return, although Thomas exhaled a generous cloud of smoke before replying, “I rather think _you’re_ Mrs Thomas Barrow.”

Jimmy’s pout made his fag droop precariously from his lower lip. He caught it just in time. “Why do _I_ have to be the wife, eh?”

“Because husbands are always taller.” Now Thomas blew the smoke from flared nostrils, which Jimmy had no business finding so attractive, really. “Everyone knows that.”

“Yeah, but I—I—” He cast about desperately for a counter-argument. “I proposed! The husband always proposes. Even short husbands.” He pointed his half-finished cigarette like an accusing finger. “Not that I’m _short,_ mind.”

Thomas grinned, an open, almost childish expression only Jimmy was allowed to see. “I suppose the matter is settled, then.” He said it in a way that made it clear the matter wasn’t settled at all. For the rest of his life, Jimmy would have to parry comments about what a good, little wife he was. He couldn’t bloody wait.

“Care for a round of cards?” Thomas asked while attempting a rather poor shuffle. A few of the cards escaped down the gap between the seat cushion of the chair and the arm. He bent his head to retrieve them; when he looked up, Jimmy gave him a very warm look indeed.

“Don’t be boring, Thomas,” he said, pitching his voice just a shade lower, pursing his full lips just so. “It’s our wedding night.”

Thomas didn’t need telling twice. He shed the worn, flannel robe and clambered onto the bed beside Jimmy with an enthusiasm that frankly did wonders for Jimmy’s ego. Hands hurriedly stubbed out orange filters in a nearby ashtray, then set about the task of divesting the other fellow of his clothes. Their movements were sure, no customary wedding night jitters here, for this was another first that wasn’t _really._ Thomas pressed their bare chests together, and the prickle of coarse hair against tender, overheated skin sent desire crackling along Jimmy’s spine.

“How much time off do you reckon Carson will give us for the honeymoon?” Thomas asked, even though he was nearly breathless with lust, and Jimmy had to hastily stifle a laugh against his warm, solid shoulder.

“Just long enough for _this,_ ” said Jimmy, and with a fluid, practised motion, he rolled Thomas on top of him, the bed frame creaking beneath their weight.

Outside that room, the world slumbered on, ignorant of Jimmy and Thomas eagerly consummating their union. With the coming of the dawn, their magic bubble would pop, and the two of them would have to step out into the bustle of a manor house in the Yorkshire countryside once more. The world wouldn’t understand why Jimmy Kent didn’t have himself a girl, nor why Thomas Barrow seemed to smile more easily than he ever had before. But the bond between them would remain—a gentle, inexorable tugging at the most secret caverns of their hearts.


End file.
